


A Change of Heart

by coultercouture



Series: I'll try to be good [1]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Multi, Unplanned Pregnancy, marisahasfeelings, menaredicks, precanon, theonetimemarisacoulterlostcontrol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coultercouture/pseuds/coultercouture
Summary: Oneshot: Alternative ending to Lyra's birth.
Relationships: Edward Coulter/Marisa Coulter, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon, Marisa Coulter & Marisa Coulter's Daemon
Series: I'll try to be good [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108460
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	A Change of Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first dipping my toe into fanfiction, so please be kind lol. 
> 
> Since the finale of HDM2 I can't get Marisa Coulter out of my head - she has taken over my life.

It had been a long arduous labour, near on fourteen hours. It had been as awful as many had said it would be, however not in the ways in which others had described. The lack of control that came with the birthing of a child was the major difficulty Marisa Coulter faced as she brought life into the world. For someone accustomed to being the one in control – of herself and others – this came as the hardest pill for her to swallow as she endured and rode out the uncontrollable waves of childbirth.

Due to her lapse of control, she was rendered vulnerable as a new life dictated her own, deciding when it would tunnel its way out of its burrow, that had been the security of her womb for nine long months. Her vulnerability was very apt given that she was in the process of bringing a child into the world; a helpless baby being the very definition of vulnerable. Her emotional state would mirror the vulnerability and helplessness her child would soon show upon her arrival into the world. In addition to this, she was expected to give birth in the bath. Her own bathtub. Through no fault of her own had she run a bath during the early hours of labour, thinking that the warm water may soothe the pains that had started. Never had she envisaged that this would lead to her lying there, many hours later and inevitably expected to proceed with the horrors of childbirth in the bathroom of all places. Even the thought had made her cringe internally. Hardly the glamour and splendour a woman like Mrs Coulter was accustomed to.

It was this lack of control over such a long period of time that felt almost worse than the pain. She could master the pain. She was an expert in that field due to years of practise as a child when her mother would beat her for the littlest of inconvenience she caused her. Sometimes she beat her, Marisa thought, merely for being alive. Just as that thought had appeared in her mind her golden monkey daemon squalled in pain as if haunted by the memory himself. “Be quiet,” she retaliated as a long and hard contraction overtook her body. Once it had passed, she arrived at the conclusion that she could now, finally, begin to understand her mother in some way as she had resented the child that intended to depart from her body, from the moment it had formed into a collection of cells in her womb. Combined with months of sickness, weight gain and a weak bladder, she felt that pregnancy offered not one incentive. It was infuriating and made her realise just how much she did not want the child. In fact, she thought, she had no desire to ever have children again. It made her think just how much she was unsuited to motherhood.

The lack of dignity that came part and parcel with childbirth didn’t bode well with Marisa. Though she couldn’t see herself as she was laid up in her bathtub, which she was truly grateful for, she knew she must’ve looked as sweaty and red as she felt. During the worst throes of contractions as she began to feel the urge to push, she began to channel her angers and frustrations at the world she lived in and had become a product of, as she squeezed with all her might and roared with animalistic instinct mirroring the noises of her daemon, as she pushed brand new life into the world. She screamed through the pain as her hips ground down at the strange and unfamiliar sensation that came as the head of the infant reached the birth canal. Subsequently, she screamed at the situation she found herself to be in; at herself; at her gender for being the one responsible, for having to be the one who must deal with the brunt of not only her mistake, but also her lover’s; and most importantly, at Asriel Belacqua.

* * *

Marisa revelled in her glamour and enjoyed how she could manipulate her good looks to create an alluring power, which made men practically fall to her feet and yield to her charms. This was her one advantage to being an academically talented woman in a male dominated world. Yet again, while appearance meant a great deal to Marisa, and always had, at that very instant, as she screamed (through pain, exhaustion and euphoria all entwined together) as the babe slid out of her sex, she could not have cared less as she sunk further into the bath trying to avoid the inevitable moment in where she would eventually meet the child that she had carried. However, the midwife wasted no time in lifting the child from between her thighs and placed on her on Marisa’s bare chest; the baby’s tiny hamster formed daemon resting on the child’s bare back.

“No, no, no!” she cried over the baby’s own whimpers, as fresh hot, wet, slippery and blood-spattered flesh came into contact with her own. “Take it away! I don’t want it,” yelled the young woman to the midwife. But the older woman hushed the fragile woman, stroking her arm. Normally Marisa Coulter would’ve batted such comforts away from a practical stranger, but somehow, she took solace in the kindness and compassion shown by another woman – something she was not accustomed to.

“The child needs her mother,” she implored.

“She?” Marisa asked dumbfounded. As the midwife gave a gentle and reassuring smile. Just then, Mrs Coulter’s eye caught the monkey who was perched at the end of the tub, who had minutes ago retrieved the newborn daemon from the child, as if to inspect it. As she glanced at them from their position at the end of the bathtub, she noticed how her monkey affectionately embraced the small daemon. One had to look closely to see it, but there it was, already changed from its original form, now a baby polecat. The monkey bore its stare into her glassy eyes giving a placid nod, to confirm that the baby was in fact a girl, meaning he himself sat cradling the child’s male counterpart. This, as a result, made her tear her stare away from him as she knew that look in his eyes. Even the way he handled the small and newly formed daemon was done with such care, such delicacy; she couldn’t bear to look a fraction longer. “I don’t want it,” she muttered, as if directed to herself or her daemon, or both. Who knew? But by saying it she hoped she could convince the midwide and her daemon; but more importantly, that she could convince herself. “I don’t want it,” she said more audibly for a third time, hoping the midwife and her badger daemon would notice her pleads and deal with the situation. “I don’t want you,” Marisa almost inaudibly whispered as she dared to make eye contact with the infant who’s cries echoed and rang against the bathroom walls. However, as her eyes met with dark orbs she instantly regretted such a proclamation. “I’m sorry. Shhh shh. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.”

With the lull of her unsure mother’s voice, a noise she had recognised during her gestation, the newborn began to settle in Marisa’s arms once the midwife had helped to find a more comfortable arrangement with the child nestled in her arms.

* * *

From that moment upon which mother and daughter locked eyes upon one another - where sapphires met chocolatl – it had changed everything. Her plan… Well, Asriel’s grand plan. Oh how it had truly backfired, how it now lay in ruins. She was to send word of the child’s arrival. From there, they were to arrange a rendezvous where she hand the child over to Asriel and he would find some form of “sanctuary” as he called it. She knew that much of the plan. She wanted no further knowledge or involvement. Asriel, from that point, would be responsible for the infant’s fate. She would have played her part; done what was required. As she had learned from her affair, getting involved or attached led to disastrous effects.. Therefore, she wanted no inclination of the child’s whereabouts, that would lead to temptation; something she was prone to. It was for the best, she had kept telling herself. It meant she couldn’t track her down and she could return to life as she had once known it pre affair. This meant continuing with her research; being a magnificent member of society; and, of course, a dedicated wife to her husband, Edward Coulter. Furthermore, she would bury her sins in order to preserve the position and influence she held; something she had worked so hard for.

Once the child was gone, she was gone forever. It would be as if she had never existed. She had made this much clear to him as they sat some evenings, as they did when they would meet in secret, when Asriel was lodging in London, when they began mulling over how they could conceal the truth. In order to complete the plan, she was expected to return home and fain grief. The baby was to have died only old days from a cot death, while Edward was away in Northern Brytian on Magisterium business. ‘A terrible tragedy,’ the new reports would state. That had been their initial plan, anyway.

However, in her naivety, Marisa hadn’t accounted for the indisputable rush of emotion that giving birth would incite. She had a very vague idea of how it might feel, but she was devastated as her emotions betrayed her and their meticulous planning seemed have been for nothing.

She felt dream-like, as if she were floating; encased in a bubble in which she and her daughter (and their two daemons) only existed in. However, she was coaxed out of her trance when she realised the midwife was calling her name. “Mrs Coulter.”

“What is it?” she spat, irritated at the inconvenience this woman was causing her, for breaking the magical scene Marisa had been entrapped in, instantly forgetting that the woman had provided her with a real sense of comfort and support throughout the whole ordeal.

“I was just saying, the cord has been cut and clamped. Now for the afterbirth,” she cajoled. “Just small gentle pushes for this part. Shall I take the child away? Get a member of your staff to clean her up?”

“No,” she harshly growled in unison with her monkey who clung onto the baby girl’s polecat companion even tighter than he had been, out of fear someone would whisk both infant and daemon away. “She’s mine,” Marisa retorted like a child in fear of someone stealing her most treasured possession. “She’s fine here, aren’t you?” She found herself speaking to the child who was slumbering peacefully on her chest. The moment took her unaware, soon realising the ludicrousness of what she had done. She had done just as she had witnessed so many other mothers, women she knew; Magisterium official’s wives, even strangers with small children. Oh how she’d recoiled and scoffed at those who spoke to babies… and in that ridiculous voice. Fools, she had thought. And yet, somehow, here Marisa had found herself doing something similar. Maybe this was something you did? Mothers… These thoughts filled and infiltrated her mind as she gazed at the child in equal doses of confusion and wonderment. How could such a small being create such chaos, evoke such a feeling in oneself?

She was snapped out of her stupor, however, wincing as she felt the tug of the afterbirth give way, as she instinctively pushed until it smoothly passed through her body in one swift movement.

* * *

Hours later, once mother and baby has been assisted out of the bathroom (and the bathtub), and had since been cleaned up from the mess – the gore and the blood - that came with childbirth. Now Marisa sat up in bed cradling her newborn daughter, whose mouth was rooted to her mother’s breast as she fed. The only noises which filled the cavernous room was the contented little noises emanating from the baby as she sucked with zeal, getting her fill. All the while, Marisa adapted to this strange sensation as her child fed from her, realising how much the midwife had been right. The child needed a mother. This was evident as she was the child’s only source of sustenance. She spent time taking in ever feature of the babe, as if worried she were a figment of her imagination; that she might vanish. Her eyes drank in the sight that lay before her as she searched every detail of the girl: from her downy dark hair, not dissimilar from her own, all the way down to the finer details of each individual finger and every toe. She stroked the infant’s face revelling in the softness of her skin as she inhaled the sweet scent of new life; her daemon did similar as he caressed the child’s daemon, now in the form of a white ermine. So soft. So pure. The definition of innocence. It was hard to believe, when Marisa observed her, that she had been the product of all that was bad in the world: sin and dust.

Having sent the midwife and all her staff away, she knew she could speak freely, only to be heard by her child, her daemon and the baby daemon. “Ly-ra,” she mused aloud, trying the name out. “She’s called Lyra,” she said again, but with more conviction this time. She said this whilst turning to look and speak directly to her daemon, breaking her gaze from the child. This came as a surprise for as she realised that this was the first time since she had started her affair with Lord Asriel which she had spoken to him. This was because her golden monkey had never approved of her illicit relationship; he had warned her time and time again that it would come to no good. However, a headstrong Marisa had continued to ignore him as she basked in all that was missing in her marriage: excitement, pleasure, passion. Nevertheless, as her monkey was essentially an extension of herself, this meant that by ignoring her conscience, she was avoiding the same thoughts that she had also harboured herself.

Equally, being directly spoken to for the first time in over twelve months, it came as a shock to the pitiful creature, who flinched which jostled and jolted Lyra’s daemon, nearly completely dropping him from his arms. Undeniably this kafuffle affected Lyra as she choked on a mouthful of her mother’s milk. Without thinking, instinct prevailed as Marisa moved her daughter into an upright position, as she tried to soothe the coughs and splutters by placing a reassuring hand on the baby’s little back, rubbing soothing circles. “Sh sh… Silly monkey making you choke on your milk, hm?” she spoke to Lyra, dropping a soft kiss atop her head, as she glared directly into her daemon’s dark eyes. He was physically trembling under her stare until she broke her watchful eye with a cheeky wink, which helped him to settle and relax back into his position at the end of the four-poster bed. “So what have you decided? What’s the daemon to be called?” she asked the golden monkey.

“Pantalaimon,” he said speaking out loud to Marisa, forgetting what it felt like to speak aloud – he hadn’t done it in so long. He had been worried he would have lost his voice. If that had been the case, the child would have an unnamed daemon and that would’ve led to all sorts of problems as the girl aged. The pressure really had been heaped on him. The naming of a daemon was normally a task entrusted upon both parents’ daemons. However, this was no normal situation, and Marisa was no ordinary woman.

“Lyra and Pantalaimon,” she uttered as her eyes fell on her daughter, once again, who cooed as if she were giving her approval of the names that had been selected for her and Pantalaimon.

Marisa had never imagined herself to be maternal, or what someone might call a ‘natural mother.’ She never used to pay too much notice of children. She knew they existed, having been one herself, but she never truly understood their purpose. Why must a group of women coo and gush over a baby? It was always just a baby, as far as Marisa were concerned. Yet, with the flood of postnatal emotions that overpowered her the moment she and her daughter set eyes upon one another for the first time, it was then that she knew; whether consciously or subconsciously, she could not say, that she couldn’t possibly be parted from little Lyra. Despite the trouble it would cause her and the public shame, she would be deemed a pariah for the raising of her illegitimate child, she would face it. She was ready to fight. Ready to fight for her maternal rights. Ready to fight for a better future for her baby. Only hours old and Lyra had already given Marisa a cause and a purpose.

It was then that Marisa, in a frenzied state, had an epiphany: those who lay in the room were what mattered the most. Not Edward; not Asriel; not the opinions of others; not her positively glittering career in Experimental Theology; not even the Magisterium; and neither did sin nor dust. She remembered spending her entire pregnancy feeling that the child did not belong where it lay. It had felt alien to her, unattached to her as if she were someone’s handmaid or surrogate; as if it had not been made out of love for its father. Perhaps these were fictions she had told herself to suppress and control the situation. And it had worked. For a while, at least. Until the ‘it’ transformed into a ‘she’ and then into a Lyra.

It was only now that she realised that her daughter was just that: _Hers_. Not Edward’s; neither was it Asriel’s. Where were either of the men in her life when she had needed them? Well fuck them all, Marisa thought, as a fire burned in her belly as she raged over her world’s systematic structure was founded upon: men dictating and pigeon-holing the lives of women. The world had to change in order for Lyra to have a more hopeful future as a young woman, and Marisa would work her damned hardest to ensure that that could be made possible. How someone so small could rouse such fervour into another, perplexed Marisa to no end. Perhaps the exhaustion from labour had made her delirious. Perhaps not. Perhaps this was a perfectly natural and rational reaction. She couldn’t be sure. The only thing she could be sure of was how much she wanted her child.

“I didn’t want this; I never wanted this. As much as I shouldn’t, I can’t help but love you. It would make things so much easier if I didn’t, but you have stolen my heart, Lyra Belacqua.” 


End file.
